It seemed to Heraklas that there came to him, also, Christ's solemn
question. With awe-struck lips, Heraklas whispered, out of a heart
that craved its answer, "Who is he, Lord, that I might believe on
him?"

Heraklas bent above his roll. The answer of the Lord was there. "It
is He that talketh with thee."

The lad dropped his papyrus, and covered his face. He bowed in awe.
For a long time he knelt there, pouring out his soul in prayer--but
not to Egypt's gods. And that which is written of the blind man was
fulfilled in Heraklas, also--"And he said, Lord, I believe. And he
worshiped him."

When Heraklas rose from his knees, the sun was high in mid-heaven.
It was the time at home when his mother would burn myrrh to the sun.
But no prayer to Re or hymn to Horus escaped Heraklas' lips. How
should he, who rejoiced in the knowledge of sins forgiven, pray more
to false gods?

A holy awe and a great joy wrapped his soul. The burden of sin that
had oppressed him, the hopeless burden which had not ceased to cause
Heraklas misery even when he made offerings to Isis and poured forth
prayers to Serapis, was gone, gone at the touch of Jesus.

Plucking from his girdle his carnelian buckle, that signified to an
Egyptian the blood of Isis, said to wash away the sins of the
wearer, Heraklas leaned forward, and flung the rosy ornament far
into the white foam of the waves below. He could not wear that
heathen sign, even though his mother had given the ornament to him.